


Day Without the Sun

by Photosynths (orphan_account)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast
Genre: ???? Not really but kinda, Angst, Depression, Gen, Other, Slow Burn, curse, its just an angsty fic lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 02:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Photosynths
Summary: Cogsworth wakes up the night after the ball, in denial of the situation and alone.





	1. 7:03:02 AM

**Author's Note:**

> These are going to be pretty short chapters, I think, due to how everything is split up. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Please comment/leave a kudos if you're so inclined! I'd appreciate it!

7:03:02 AM.

Cogsworth does not know _how, _but he knows in the core of his being that this is the exact second he has awoken.__

__An odd thing to think first thing out of bed; the time. Awfully detailed, too. Down to the second? Curious._ _

__Goodness--7:03:48 now! That's over an hour past the usual awakening hour, it is absolutely disgraceful to climb out of bed at such a time. Has the whole staff been too lazy to rouse him, or perhaps avoided the task in order to try and skirt their morning duties? "Ah, wouldn't put it past them. Especially Lumiere, the devil," thought Cogsworth to himself._ _

__The Master will surely need some consolation. If Cogsworth didn't have his years behind him, he'd be quaking in fear of the Master's rage at leaving his bedchambers just now at such a disgraceful hour, especially as major-domo._ _

__7:04:29 AM._ _

__Well, that's quite enough musing. "I must be quite lost in thought," Cogsworth speculated with distaste, as he seemed to already standing next to the small, empty fireplace his small suite housed and didn't even remember getting out of bed. Goodness, what had made him awake like this and be so sluggish? What could've he done last night..._ _

__Last night.  
Last...night._ _

__No, no--tonight. Tonight. It's tonight. M-Minutes ago, just minutes...no, seconds, mere seconds, only seconds ago--_ _

__His mind tells him the ball has only just come to a halt only moments ago, but something else, something completely different screams that it is 7:05:04 AM it is 7:05:05 AM it is 7:05:06 AM--_ _

__\--what's happening._ _

__

__And then Cogsworth wakes up. Fully. He is now...Awake._ _

__He is not standing next to his mantle. He has not moved since he's been conscious. And it is not the mistake of too many sherries or tainted wine, nor a clever jape by a certain annoyingly jovial colleague._ _

__It is 7:05:10 AM, and Monsieur Henry Cogsworth, major-domo of the largest, most highly renowned castle in France..._ _

__...is a clock._ _


	2. Unwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth reminisces on the night before.

There are screams in the corridors, ones Cogsworth is just now hearing. There are also scratches, scrapes, and the squawk of wood against floor, as if someone particularly panicked was pushing his chair back under its table. 

Cogsworth is standing on four wooden legs atop his mantle next to a picture frame featuring two grinning faces, and one of them seems to mock him. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. It is a nightmare. It is only a nightmare. Too much stress causes these things, said Pére Robert, don't you know. Breathe. There is another screech. Breathe. A windowpane shatters. Breathe. Wood snaps. 

_Breathe._  
Why aren't I breathing?  
_Breathe._  
Why am I not calming down?  
_Breathe._  
Why isn't this working?  
**_Breathe._**  
Why can't I breathe?

This isn't working, oh god, this nightmare is lasting too god damned long.

"What happened last night?!" cries Cogsworth to himself, seemingly unable to express himself in the same way whatever is outside is.

And then he remembers.  
Just like clockwork.

The makeup.  
The gowns.  
The Aria.  
The hag.

The rose.

The refusal.

...The PAIN--oh, god, now he remembers; it wracks through him again; the moans, the screams, the pleas for help.

He can feel it again now, the tearing away of muscle and flesh and the raw splinters of wood and cold hard weight of gold, his heart rearranging itself so slowly, so mechanically, into cogs and springs and time.

It is 7:08:13 AM, and Monsieur Henry Cogsworth, major-domo of the largest, most highly renowned castle in France, is a mantel clock.

And he can move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! Back in action.


	3. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth has come back to himself and understandably has a few struggles.

The first thing he does is slap a hand to his face, to his eyes, to stop crying. But therein lie several problems.

One: his hand is now made of gold; and furthermore could only be considered a hand by a crazy man much in the same way he'd call an ink blot a wildebeest in a trenchcoat. 

Two: his eyes are inlaid in the face of a clock, stowed behind a layer of glass to protect what Cogsworth would presume to be clock hands, were he in the right mind to be concluding anything from the situation.

And three: he cannot cry. He is a clock. Clocks don't have emotions.

Cogsworth slaps at the glass film that covers his face and his eyes dart to what he'd barely call hands, then begin to focus on the rest of his wooden body. He takes a few steps, even though it feels like he should've fallen to his knees by now. 

"Oh...oh my word," he finally says aloud. It was meant as an exclamation, but it leaves his mouth as a croaking whisper. He can talk. He can move. And he is a clock. "S-sorcery," he chokes out. It is not in disbelief that he says that, but more of a quivering accusation. 

There's still discord beyond his doorway, and he's going to have to try and help. The screams outside have melted into sobs, and Cogsworth intends on getting to the bottom of this--this nightmare scenario. God above, let it be one. 

He zeroes in on the bookshelf beside his fireplace. If he could get there, then perhaps he could climb down like a ladder--but how to cross the gap from bookshelf to mantle. Quite a drop, especially now with such a small stature. The distance seems to expand as Cogsworth stares, so he looks back to the bookcase.

His small, gold hands grip the molding of the fireplace. There's simply no other way. He's never been one for athletics, and having a clock for a body most certainly cannot help--but again, what else can he do? 

He's just got to release his weight and swing. That's all. Simple, really. Any old fool could do it.

1...2...3.

_CLUNK._

God...god damn it. 

And there he is, laying face-up at the ceiling. But, it's peculiar--he doesn't feel the shooting pain up his spine that he surely would've, say, last night. In fact, he doesn't feel anything at all. And so he lays there, paralyzed by not his own body's shortcomings, but rather shock, panic, or some muted fusion of the two.

He groans, and forces his two arms behind him to lift himself up. No such luck. They're simply too short, and he hasn't got knees anymore.

"This is humiliating," he grumbles. If this is a dream, as he subconsciously forces himself to believe, his mind must really be mocking him. What a peculiar dream; but of course it's still a dream! Not a chance in hell it could be anything more. 

Cogsworth rolls onto his side and pushes up from there, almost tipping over again once his head's up. 

He takes a few clumsy steps, forcing the two legs that are holding both of his sides up. Two at a time, two at a time. 

He looks up at the brass doorknob that towers above him. He moves his arm to pinch the bridge of his nose and promptly clicks his glass face again. This is getting old. He rather wishes he could just awaken from this dream, or whatever it is. This simply couldn't be real, no matter what he thinks he remembers. Too implausible.

 

Just one scaling of desk drawers, a compass (the drawing tool, of course) and four thumps of a clock falling to the floor later, the door is open.

Cogsworth pushes open the heavy oak door, and sees mayhem. Or, rather, the aftermath of mayhem. Tables, chairs, even combs and forks are littered across the corridor--some huddled in corners, others pacing, and still some smaller trinkets tearing through the hall. There are sobs and there are screams; calls for significant others, children, help. 

It's strange, really. Cogsworth looks around, but he can only really see the hallway as a mess to be cleaned up later. There is nothing alive here. There is no one calling. There are just toiletries and chairs littering the ground--as if some great wind had whipped the whole castle's contents about. Even the smaller, pacing little objects just look as if they're caught up in a breeze or something of that sort. 

"This is madness," says Cogsworth. He's eerily calm for the situation, the same air of order and control he usually faces circumstances with. He woke up once and he'll wake up again--that's the mantra he's clinging to. He thunks into the servants' common corridor, wondering where everyone's all gone to. If he's clock-shaped, it'd go to reason that the staff would share similar fates, but there are only baubles and furniture here. Perhaps that's a metaphor for something or other. "Dreams can be silly like that," he tells himself, "very confusing and filled with all sorts of mystical hubbub." He doesn't want to think about how long it will take to clean up this mess, and it feels like stress is winding up within him, like a coil is being wound much too tight as time passes.

Walking is a lot harder now; along with many, many other things. It wasn't brought to his attention until now, but there's a constant tick-tock-tick-tock that streams from within him. It's gotten grinding now, and if he still had his ears he'd say it's grown hard on them. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Clunk-clank, clunk-clank. He hasn't felt this heavy on his feet since the war.

He dodges large pieces of furniture and skids around spoons and feather dusters. He'd cough from the down being ripped by wind of speed or its wearers were there anything to cough with. He really must find his compatriots too, later, but the Master must be dealt with first. This may be all in his head, but a sincere apology for lateness and a consultation with Adam about the circumstances of the castle staff and the mess would be what he'd do if he were awake. I mean, what else could he do? This is madness. Foolishness. Sorcery. Cogsworth feels like crying out in anguish for some reason or another. No matter.

Cogsworth hauls himself up the first step, glancing back at a black-and-gold coatrack who seems to have taken one look into a foyer mirror and froze, silent. Perhaps it's just, ah, a regular coat rack positioned just that way. The way it seems to hold itself seems familiar somehow, as if the way it stands isn't carved in. "A-anyway," splutters Cogsworth, to someone. Maybe himself.

He's too short now to conquer the stairs as fast as he would like to, but he hoists himself up, one-by-one.

"Humiliating," he grumbles, swinging up a too-short wooden leg onto the carpet. No one seems to be listening or care what he's got to say (for once, he couldn't blame them) so he allows himself to speak his thoughts aloud. They're easier to keep organized that way, not left in his mind to be ground by cogs and whatever else is back there.

"Perhaps--perhaps she has forced a nightmare on us all. That sounds plausible," he muses, stopping for a moment to stroke--or attempt to stroke--where his chin would usually be. "What was it that old hag had said...ah. 'You did nothing, you do nothing now, and you shall continue to do nothing for evermore should the curse remain unbroken,' or something of that sort." Perhaps that means the staff is asleep? Has she just made a mess of the castle because she doesn't think it's well-kept enough, that the staff "does nothing?" Oh, hardly, he keeps this castle in the finest order possible!

He can feel that coil winding some more. Or, maybe he dreamt up the Enchantress as well! He's not one to have such lucidity in his slumber, but there's a first time for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth's in deniaaaaal~!


	4. Upstairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth thinks more to himself if you can believe it, encounters more strange circumstances with objects, and makes it upstairs.

Luckily, he clambers up the first two flights of stairs without a single hitch. Nobody seems to be disturbing him, but baubles and hall ornaments are following his path or skidding down the steps themselves. From the way they fall and go up the stairs, it looks like some messy idiot is tossing them down the steps or up them. Strange. Where is everyone?

Only one more flight to the West Wing. Uneasiness wraps around Cogsworth and seems to ensnare his chest and all the gears and cogs it's got in it--or, no, that it feels like there are. He's just hallucinating. There are no gears or cogs or incessant tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-- _AHEM,_ n-noises in his mind. They're not actually there because they simply can't be.

A roar cascades down the stairway and rattles the castle. "Has that been happening all along?" says Cogsworth, not expecting an answer. If so, he hadn't noticed. Dreams are like that sometimes. Absentmindedness and idleness are the two greatest sins in Cogsworth's mind, but if he's only practicing one of them he cannot be in too poor shape. 

Ah. Here we are. The giant, finely carved doors to the Master's chambers. And goodness--a large collection of objects are gathered at the entrance, and it appears that some are leaning on them, and a hatrack or two are at the door handles, the only objects who would be tall enough to reach them should they gain the sentience to. How odd. It'll take eternity to return all these things to their proper places, groans Cogsworth.

A three-pronged candelabra from the dining hall, however, is a bit farther away, a bit closer to Cogsworth. He didn't even notice how close it was at his first glance. 

The candles are lit and flicker vehemently. Somehow, Cogsworth can feel sudden heat on his shoulders, then on his face, like a sharp slap. The wicks on the candelabra go out, and again, Cogsworth inexplicably feels as if he's being shaken by unseen arms. He must be having some sort of attack due to the high blood sugar Mrs Potts keeps warning him about. Maybe a panic attack--that seems a bit more likely with the lack of blood he seems to have. 

"Ahem," says Cogsworth, walking right past the strange candelabra, plumes of smoke still rising from its candles. A sharp wind must've hit it from somewhere. A feather duster is leaning against the candelabra once he looks back. Was that always there? Either there is a very cruel servant about, he's dreaming incredibly lucidly, or...

He pushes another feather duster aside, gently, to knock on the door. "Your Eminence?" he calls. "I know it is far past awakening time, and your breakfast is late," Cogsworth continues, "but it is of utmost importance that I hold council with you." 

No reply. Of course. This is too ridiculous, thinks Cogsworth. If he's going to be stuck dreaming a hellish fever dream he's not doing it alone. The prince had grown cruel and selfish, but this was an emergency. Besides, this all some sort of enchantment-dream. Wouldn't matter what happened anyway. 

"Your Grace? This may sound impertinent of me, and for that I apologize, but do remember that whether you like it or not, I am an elder member of the staff. I believe you'll find it highly beneficial should you open these doors." Cogsworth pauses. The coil inside winds. "Immediately."

Miraculously, a lock clicks. The door swings open, just a crack. "Thank you, sire." Cogsworth says, his tone sharp. Somehow, it seems like some of the items gathered out front have filtered in. Circumstances are getting a bit too strange for my liking, thought Cogsworth, who clunked inside and looked around the eerily dark room for the young Master. 

Oh dear. The room was perhaps even messier than the outside hallways. Chairs were toppled, drapes and the finest tapestries were torn, the in-wall torches were unlit and broken off. Where was the prince? Where was anyone? 

Cogsworth suddenly felt very small, very breakable, and very, very afraid. Things were beginning to feel more real by the second, and in that, things began to feel much more like a fairytale, too.


	5. 8:00:00 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cogsworth is confronted with a candelabra, a feather-duster, tea set, and coatrack.

Cogsworth's voice echoed into the dark chamber. "...sire?" 

Something in the back of the room moved, shifted. Something hulking and massive.

The same feeling of a coil being wound panged in his abdomen, near Cogsworth's back. It felt a lot more raw, now, a lot more real. The thrum of his steady ticking buzzed in his mind. 

Something, no, someone padded towards him. Before he knew it, Cogsworth was grabbed in a huge, hairy, paw. 

And there, in the dazzling pink light of a perfect pink rose, he saw two very young, very fearful, round blue eyes. And a large brown muzzle. And two curled horns. And two white, sharp, fangs. 

Despite it all, despite everything Cogsworth has seen and is seeing that points to fantasy and myth and the stuff of dreams, Cogsworth knows that this is not a nightmare.

He did not dream up last night, no matter how hard he shoves himself into cold, emotionless denial. No matter how talented he is at disregarding the impossible, or how reasonable he needs it all to be. This is not a dream, or a nightmare. 

It is 8:00:00 AM, and Monsieur Henry Cogsworth, major-domo of the largest, most highly renowned castle in France, is a mantel clock in the paws of a selfish prince who is cursed to be a Beast until his 21st year. 

It is 8:00:00 AM, and Monsieur Henry Cogsworth, major-domo of the largest, most highly cursed castle in France, is a mantel clock who can see moving, truly animated servants gaping in horror at the Beast. 

It is 8:00:00 AM and the screaming from earlier never stopped. The strange candelabra is shouting curses in a thick French accent, ushering objects--servants from the quarters with flame-tipped arms. The feather duster at his side is sobbing nonexistent tears. The Prince, the Master, the Beast, is roaring, and in the distance the sound of too many harpsichord keys being played at once shoots through the castle in an unwitting duet with the operatic screams one wing over. The coil inside Cogsworth winds up much, much, much tighter than need be now. It is too much.

But all he can sense are chimes. Eight, to be precise.

Chime. The prince drops him.

Chime. The clock feels nothing as he hits the floor.

Chime. The candelabra motions for the feather-duster to leave.

Chime. The candelabra uses its nubs of wax to grab one of the mantle clock's handles.

Chime. The candelabra drags him out of the prince's quarters.

Chime. The hatstand from the foyer, unfrozen, shuts the door. 

Chime. Another roar is muffled by the doors.

Chime. Cogsworth is lifted by the hatstand and carried off.

 

Cogsworth comes back to his senses as he is carried into the servants' common room on the ground floor. For a split second, from the height he's at, he feels human again. Reality sets in a moment later, and as he looks at the candelabra, feather-duster, and now teaset (on a cart) around him, Cogsworth is reminded that he will probably not be human again for a very, very long time, if ever.

Ever so gently, the antique clock is set down on a small table in front of the fireplace. The candelabra scrambles up the legs, somehow, and the feather-duster floats. 

"Cogsworth! Merde--Cogsworth! Are you alright? He's been absent this entire time, perhaps he is in shock--Cogsworth!" the candelabra is shaking Cogsworth, and the familiar sensation of heat returns to his shoulders.

The teapot atop her tray tells Lumiere to calm down, love, "and blow your candles out because if the man's lost his mind he especially doesn't need to be burnt!" 

 

"L...Lumiere?" says Cogsworth, forcing a word in edgewise. "Is that...you?" His voice is incredulous.

A collective sigh of bitter relief would fill the small circle of 'friends,' would anyone be able to breathe, much less breathe easy. 

"We're pleased you're alright, dear," says the teapot in the same motherly voice of Mrs. Potts. She sounds tired. 

"Yes, yes it is, mon ami. You see, we've...we've been cursed," said Lumiere, his tone much more somber than what was customary. It was as if the light in his personality had been redirected into his hands. 

"I know. I can tell that much," grumbled Cogsworth. Usually, he'd shove the handy maître d' away, but he couldn't bring himself to. Touch, while not even close to the same as it was, felt almost comforting. He was glad he wasn't alone. 

The teapot Cogsworth had to accept as Mrs. Potts spoke up, and Cogsworth spotted a teacup pressed hard against her. "Lumiere tells us you were behaving quite strangely this morning. Wouldn't react to anything. Said you seemed as cold about matters as ever--tried to get you to come to your senses, he said, but you just stared at him and walked on past!" 

"You marched right up to the Master's doors, shoved a maid, and demanded he open them! And he did!"

"Only Cogsworth," said a quiet, knowing voice, from what felt like very far away. The coatrack's intricately decorated head moved a small gold design into what looked like the signature genuine and polite smile of none other than Monsieur Chapeau's, the head footman and valet. 

The mood was somber and heavy, but the room was full of relief that this small group of close friends--Cogsworth included--was able to find one another. 

"I--I didn't know you were all alive! I didn't know what was happening! I remembered what happened, but I just...couldn't accept it." Cogsworth paused as the reality of his situation sank in until the sound of ticking became too hard for him to bear. "This is madness, what did you expect me to do, go 'c'est la vie' and go on vacation?! Taking a deep breath doesn't help because much to my chagrin, I am incapable of it! This isn't a great nightmare we can all simply awaken from!" 

Cogsworth felt the coil in his chest wind up some more--it hadn't even fully released during the chimes, and he figured he'd be stuck that way. Too much stress got him wound up. 

He looked around the silent room, the hurt expression on the already upset face of Mrs. Potts, the glare spreading across the pseudo-tearful expression of the feather-dus--maid--Lumiere's lover--Plumette--Plumette's face, and the disquieted disapproval emanating from Chapeau. 

"Ahem. M-my apologies. I'm a bit out of sorts today, as I'm sure you all would understand. My outburst was unacceptable." 

"...Thank you, Cogsworth. I'm glad you realize that now isn't the time for squabbling," said Mrs. Potts, the teacup by her side giving him a sympathetic look. 

Silence took hold of the room again. 

"What are we to do now?" murmured Lumiere, who was trying to learn how to control his candles--flicking them on and off, Plumette fearfully hoping he would be able to hold her without accidentally singeing her feathers. 

Cogsworth ticked and tocked and took a few steps towards his....friends, each one a bit more clean-cut than the last. He looked around--and up--at the candelabra, teapot, teacup, hat-rack, and feather-duster. 

Cogsworth recounted the morning, the party, the years leading up to this moment. He moved a golden...hand up to his face, and opened the glass cover on its hinge. Carefully, he readjusted the two black hands on the clock face--spun them delicately down to resemble his former mustache--and closed it with a click. 

The coil inside him tightened, the gears and cogs turned, his pendulum swung, and he ticked and tocked and ticked and tocked and put his arm on Lumiere's shoulder.

"We live," said the mantel clock in a tired man's voice. "We adapt. We go on until we can't." 

It is 8:03:02 AM, and Henry Cogsworth, Monsieur Henry Cogsworth, major-domo of the largest, most highly renowned castle in France, is the most emotional he has ever been. Ironic how his moments as something usually emotionless made him react this way. 

The room felt a little lighter, the mood a little less dark. 

Cogsworth clasped what he declared to be called his hands and braced himself against every negative emotion welled inside him. The coil wound, and wound, and wound. To his surprise, he was able to physically exhale before speaking again in the matter-of-fact cold tone he'd perfected over the years. 

"We'll try and gather up the staff and tally who is what, and try and get them working as soon as possible. Can't let them fall into a great bout of self-pity. We shall wait to be discovered by any family members who will be wondering where loved ones will have disappeared from. The castle will be cleaned, and duties shall be resumed as normal," Cogsworth paused, and clicked his tongue--again, somehow. "Is that understood?"

Lumiere was beaming at him, Mrs. Potts gave him a smile of encouragement. The mood was considerably brighter. They'd have to go on through the circumstance, and brace through it in Cogsworth fashion. 

The room emptied after a short pep talk from Lumiere and a warning from Cogsworth that if they told anyone about his display of "egregious sentimentality," he'd see to it that they were fired. Cogsworth gazed out the doorway and thought about the future, alone with his musings.

"They'll have to accept the curse or else things will seem much colder and emptier.

...They'll live. That is all they can do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I told you there'd be angst. :) Please let me know if you enjoyed!


End file.
